


Dying Inside to Hold You

by SociallyIneptDork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Meetings, Heavy Angst, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Poetry, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Painting, Romantic Soulmates, Smut, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Teen Mycroft Holmes/Teen Greg Lestrade, Teen Romance, star-gazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociallyIneptDork/pseuds/SociallyIneptDork
Summary: “Are you okay?” Greg asked and the boy gave him a weak smile. Greg had never seen someone look so lost in their own home.He looked like he didn't know his place in the world and didn't know what to do about that.Instead of answering his question, the red-haired teenager looked away to the edge of the garden. “Take a walk with me.”“To where?” Greg asked, wondering what the others would think about a painter's boy and the son of the boss taking a walk together but he knew he would be agreeing anyway.--At a party his mother drags him to, 15 year old Greg meets a troubled young man in the garden and lays beneath the stars with him for a night. However, when love gets thrown into the mix they both know it's trouble and must say their goodbye's. Many years later, he finds himself at a party that Sherlock dragged him to and a masked stranger asks him to take a walk with him.





	1. The Memories You Left Me

Greg thought this was a stupid idea. He wasn't really the type of person you'd choose to take along to a fancy party filled with the upper class, but his mother had insisted. I've gone every year, Gregory, she'd said, sounding distraught and disappointed he would even ask why they were going, and he didn't have the heart to tell her no. After all, he knew it was hard enough for her that she would be taking her son instead of her husband this year now that her husband had passed. With a sigh, he tried to fix the suit she'd handed to him. He looked in the mirror, and he tried to fix the hair he'd dyed silver the month before.

“Are you ready?” his mother asked from the door, looking at him with those eyes that always carried a sorrow in them. She stepped forward to look at him better, placing both of her hands onto his shoulders. “You've grown up so much, Greg. You look so much like... like-” she didn't finish the sentence, but he already knew how it would have ended. You look so much like your father.

She cleared her throat, forcing a smile onto her face as she fixed his collar. “Well, let's go then, alright? My boss's family will be there. Remember to be polite and hold your head high like a proper Lestrade. There'll be other kids around your age, so try not to get into a fight with the no-gooders there. Don't ask them too many questions.”

Greg nodded, knowing she meant to avoid causing them both some trouble because her job depended on it. And they weren't exactly rolling in dough. His mum seemed to accept the answer, and they drove their way to the party, where everyone wore suits and had smiles on their porcelain faces. Most of them strutted as if they owned the place, but he knew who actually owned the mansion when he saw them.

A couple, both with polite smiles, stood and walked around talking to people. The woman had a beautiful but stern face, and carried herself with her back straight as she approached them. “Oh, Eliza, I'm so happy you made it,” she said, flashing a blinding smile at Greg's mother before turning to face Greg himself. “And this must be your son, then? Gregory Lestrade. I'm Violet Holmes, it's nice to meet you.” She wore an elegant crimson dress that wrapped around her petite frame nicely and matched her lipstick, and diamond earrings that could have paid for Greg's education. She looked both threatening and untouchable, like a goddess walking among mortals with the power to launch a thousand ships.

Even though he felt out of place and foolish, Greg shook the hand she offered, smiling back at her. “It's lovely to meet you, Mrs Holmes, you look wonderful. Thank you for inviting us, your home is beautiful.” At his side, he felt his mother beam at him, and Mrs Holmes seemed to get a softer look in her eye as she looked at him.

“Oh of course,” she murmured, “feel at home. In fact-”

Whatever she was about to say was cut off when a man came to her side, and she merely went back to her previous politeness. Greg looked curiously between them as she spoke. “Timothy, this is Eliza and Gregory Lestrade. Eliza, this is Timothy, my husband,” she said the word husband as if it was a bitter pill to swallow, but the man didn't seem to notice or care.

The man flashed a charming smile at the two of them, offering his hand to Eliza. “Hello, Eliza. It's wonderful to finally meet you, my wife speaks highly of you and your work. I heard you're quite the painter.”

Eliza smiled, and Greg wondered if he was imagining the sadness in Mrs Holmes' eyes, or the nervousness in his mother's. “It's an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Just Tim would be fine, actually. You don't have to treat me like an authority, really.” Eliza laughed nervously, but luckily another guest called Timothy over and with a grin he walked away. There was something about him though, and Greg decided he didn't like him.

After a few seconds of awkward silence filled with words that nobody said, Violet finally cleared her throat and gave them both a brittle smile. “I hope you both enjoy your stay here. There are guest rooms I can offer if you two would accept. I really do wish I could spend more time with you, Eliza. You're too elusive these days.”

Smiling at her, Greg's mum nodded. “Oh, of course, that sounds swell!”

“Wonderful!” Violet beamed, and Greg noted how much more beautiful she was with a real smile on her face. “I'd love it if Greg could meet my son. He's a bit of a homebody and might grow into a recluse if I let him, but I do wish they could be friends. Greg seems like just the right type of company for him.”

They continued talking and Greg's mother pushed him off, telling him to walk around and meet other people. He felt like a being from a different planet with his silver hair and aged shoes, so he tried to sink into the background and avoid the clumps of other teenagers his age that regarded him with curiosity and questioning glances. Some of the ladies looked like they wanted to approach him but after sharing a look with their parents, refrained. He was just a son of a painter that managed to get on the good side of the Holmes' but he knew these others were sons and daughters of government officials and professors and scientists.

As he walked through the elaborate and labyrinth-like garden, he began to hear agitated voices in hushed tones. Hesitantly, he hid behind a Greek statue of some god or another, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Father, please,” he heard the voice of a boy saying in a pleading tone, and Greg could see the voice fitting someone who spent most of the time speaking in a resigned and soft tone, as if the person wouldn't raise their voice to save their life. Maybe they'd learned the hard way not to. “You must understand why I cannot!”

He heard leaves rustling underfoot, a soft grunt passing the boy's lips. “You can try.” A growl, a threat, a well of fury hidden behind the misleading words.

“I cannot,” was the soft and trembling reply, a broken admission of weakness that Greg could imagine was rare.

“Why can't you could be more like the other boys! You broken machine,” he heard whispered harshly, and could just imagine the sneer that accompanying it. He peeked from behind the corner to see Timothy Holmes' back stalking away from the garden, his back tense like he was prepared for a fight but had to keep up appearances. When he was sure that the despicable man was gone, he tried to find the source of the other voice.

What he found was someone who fit his mental image quite well- a scrawny boy about his age with hair that shined red under the moonlight and eyes that looked black in the shadows that the tree cast over his face. He had a black dress shirt on, and the way he looked at Greg was not a way Greg ever wanted to be looked at again. It was a mixture of resignation, fear and anger, as if he was on the edge of breaking but had been breaking for a very long time and had gotten used to it. “You heard,” he observed, but there was no accusation in the words.

“Are you okay?” Greg asked and the boy gave him a weak smile. Greg had never seen someone look so lost in their own home.

He looked like he didn't know his place in the world and didn't know what to do about that.

Instead of answering his question, the red-haired teenager looked away to the edge of the garden. “Take a walk with me.”

“To where?” Greg asked, wondering what the others would think about a painter's boy and the son of the Boss taking a walk together but he knew he would be agreeing anyway.

The other boy looked at him, his lips cracking with a half-smile. Something akin to amusement danced in his eyes, and the wind played music in their ears. “You'll see.” He began walking and Greg fell in step with him, looking behind them at the Holmes' mansion, where the party was still on-going and music still played. The garden had a different air to it, a more peaceful but delicate atmosphere like an empty church.

They walked silently for a while, the gravel crackling beneath their feet and the moon guiding their way. “My father,” Alexander began, “is not a pleasant man.”

“That's not the word I'd use if I was you.”

The boy let out a breath through his nose, and amusement filled his eyes once more as he regarded Gregory. “I'm Alexander.”

“Gregory, nice to meet you,” Greg responded. “Now that we've got that out of the way- why was he upset? If you don't mind my asking, that is. I'd rather not be escorted out by security. My mum wouldn't forgive me for that.”

Alexander rolled his eyes, “I am... not the son he wanted, to say the least. He feels I am still far too untrained and lack the spark it takes to succeed. My... tendencies don't aid me either. All in all, he thinks me a disappointment.”

Sadness filled Greg at Alexander's words. The words sounded resigned and weary, which felt wrong for someone so young. His eyes carried in them a sorrow that had accumulated over many years, and it was the same look that Greg's mum had in her eyes whenever her husband was brought up. It was grief, longing and exhaustion all at once, and Greg wished he could ease some of it away.

“Tendencies? What do you mean?” he asked, looking around them. “You aren't a vampire, are you? It would be... rather unseemly if you were,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue even though he had other words in mind. Like horrible and fucked up.

Alexander scoffed. “A vampire? No, don't be absurd, of course I'm not. I'm something else, you idiot.”

He stopped walking, and turned to face Greg, leaning in conspiratorially. “I'm a homosexual,” he said through gritted teeth, eyes burning into Greg's. “If this bothers you, I highly suggest you turn around now and do not speak another word of this to anyone else. I can have you and whoever your parent is ruined if you say this to anyone else. Do you understand?”

Greg nodded, surprised by the sudden rage in Alexander's eyes, and after a few seconds of consideration, Alexander relaxed his shoulders. Greg licked his lips nervously. “Why would that bother me?”

“Why would it not? It's... unseemly. Unnatural.”

Greg frowned. “Love is never unnatural.”

Alexander regarded him weirdly for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed. “You've thought extensively about this topic before,” he observed quietly, eyes calculating.

“No,” Greg replied quickly, before blinking, his face heating up. “Love is never unnatural. Just trust me on this, alright? It's a beautiful thing and nothing can ever make it wrong or unnatural as long as it goes both ways and both parties are happy.”

There was a few moments of silence as they trudged along, and the wind hummed around them. “We're close,” Alexander finally said, and Greg looked around them. This part of the garden was dark, the lights of the party a blur in the distance.

“Close to where?” Greg asked, wrapping his black coat tighter around himself.

Alexander smiled, looking at the sky. “I like watching the stars at night. You can see it best here, and there's a clearing where we could sit.” Greg followed him, and looked up at the vast expanse of space above them. The moon was full, gently casting light on them like a mother looking down at its children. The ground was dry beneath them, grass tickling Greg's arms as he laid back to stare up at the canvas of stars above.

“I love the night,” he said, “I always felt calmest when it was night and the world was asleep and quiet. I used to watch the stars with my dad when I was younger.”

Alexander laid down beside him, closer than two strangers should be. “My mum used to do the same,” he admitted. “She's a mathematician and always had a passion for astronomy even though she only studied it casually.”

“My mum's a painter,” Greg said, chuckling. “She can't do maths to save her life, but she can paint a mean portrait of anyone or any place she's ever seen. Even if it was just once.”

“There's more than one type of intelligence, Greg,” Alex responded, smiling, unaware of the way Greg had turned his head to look at him the moment his name left the lips of the other boy. “There's more than one type of person- there's no wrong or right way about it.”

“So your father is wrong, then. You can't be broken because there's no wrong or right way to be a human being.” Greg didn't know why he couldn't let the idea go, but he words left his mouth before he could think it over properly. “There's no wrong or right way to love.”

Alex was quiet for a few seconds before turning to face him, looking meek and young as he met Greg's eyes. “Why does it bother you so much what my father thinks about love?”

“Because he's wrong.”

“So he's wrong,” Alex said, looking at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement. “He's a mortal man prone to being wrong. I'm not arguing with you.”

There was something shifting in the air, and Greg felt like he was flying. He moved his hand forward, running his fingers over the grass to keep himself from doing something absolutely insane- like running his fingers through the hair of a Holmes' son. “I heard what he said about you. I heard you two arguing. What was he trying to get you to do?”

Alex sighed, moving so that he was laying on his back again. “He says that I should try approaching one of the girls at the party. Her name's Alicia, and she's nice and all, but she's not really- I don't really- it wouldn't work. I don't feel anything for her. She's the daughter of a man in the government, well bred lady, but I've touched her and my Mark... my Mark didn't change. Obviously this frustrated my father, who told me to approach someone else, another lady, another person who could help him make allies. I said no.”

Greg nodded, looking down at the mark on his own wrist, a single band that was still mostly transparent. If he didn't know where it was, he might have even mistook it for a tan line. He hadn't met someone who could be his soul mate yet- he hadn't even been truly looking. At the age of 15 he figured he still had a lot of time left to find someone who could match him. Someone whose touch could unlock him and turn the pale band into something colorful and beautiful. Lucky people begin finding theirs during teen years, and some found more than one person. The loved, lost, and then after mourning, found someone else to fill the void.

There was a pool of people he could be compatible with out there, likely waiting for their The One.

“One of my brother's doesn't have a mark,” Greg responded, rubbing the band with his thumb. “I used to think it was sad when I was a young boy, but he's pretty happy with the life he has. He's a teacher and he says that sometimes there are things more important than romance. He says that sometimes you can leave a mark on people without having to be bound to them romantically or sexually.”

“He's not wrong.”

“I know.”

Alex put and arm behind his head. “What do you want to be when you're an adult?”

Greg thought about it for a few minutes, still undecided about what he wanted to be when he was all grown. “I might just help out my mam with her shop, but I'm not sure. I like the idea of being a cop, solving crime, stopping criminals, fighting bad people. There's too many bad people out there, and sometimes I wonder if there's any good people there too, but my mam always told me that humanity is good, but individuals are bad.”

"I like the idea of that. Humanity is good but individuals are bad.” In the distance, there was the sound of a loud bang, and fireworks covered the sky, a shower of blue and red. Alex hummed. “Your mother... a painter. Your father- he's deceased?"

Greg frowned, confused as to how Alex could possibly know about something so personal. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"My father is an expert in the business of knowing things. He's taught me his ways, and some day I hope to surpass his level of insight and observance. I could tell by the way you carry yourself, your silver hair and the dirt on your dress shoes."

After a few moments of silence, Greg prodded, "I don't see how my silver hair says anything."

"It stands out. You're obviously around my age, so roughly grade 9 or 10. Grade 11 at the most. People would notice your silver hair, and maybe that's all it is, but the ring you're wearing as a necklace tells me otherwise. Your father's ring. People don't really go around wearing other people's jewelry unless if they're dead, and what made me truly think he was dead was the dirt on your shoes. It only matches the dirt found in one part of this town- the cemetery. You go to church on Sunday's and wear those shoes and you and your mum visit his grave."

Greg sat there in stunned silence, still confused but awed nonetheless. "So my silver hair makes me stand out?"

"You wanted to look different from your father," Alex responded softly, looking at him. "Your mum- did she keep telling you that you looked like your father?"

A fantastic pattern of green exploded across the sky, and Greg remembered the party where his mother must be watching the same fireworks show. Would she be looking for him now that it was late and he hardly knew anyone here? "Yeah. I was tired of being seen like him. I didn't want to be the second Godfrey Lestrade. I wanted to be the first Greg Lestrade."

Alex nodded. "I understand the feeling completely. Was there anything I got wrong?"

"The silver ring. I've had it since he was alive. I didn't wear it often then, but I wore it from time to time."

With a frown, Alex hummed. "I'm still learning. One day... one day I won't make mistakes."

"That's an awfully big dream. Everyone makes mistakes," Greg told him, looking at him with a soft incredulous smile playing on his face.

"I won't."

He had said it so confidently that Greg had to wonder. With a mind as sharp as that? He'd heard about Alexander before, overhearing Violet telling his mam about Alex's achievements when Eliza was delivering a painting to her. A genius intellect, could graduate at the age of 16, had won countless tournaments as a child. He could have won countless more as a teenager, but he'd stopped joining, saying that he didn't like being paraded around like some type of show pony.

If anyone could rise above their humanity, it would definitely be him. Alexander Holmes.

After laying in comfortable silence for a long while, Alex shifted and looked at his watch. "It's getting quite late. We should head back."

Greg nodded, looking up at the twinkling stars above him one last time. The fireworks show had ended a few minutes ago, and it seemed to be creeping close to 1 in the morning. "Hey. I just wanted to say that I, um, really enjoyed tonight. So yeah. Thanks for spending your time with me."

Alex looked at him funnily, but he nodded as well. Greg shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling weird now that they were walking back together to the mansion. The garden seemed ominous at this hour, with the branches looking like they were spindly hands reaching out to take hold of whoever was unlucky or stupid enough to come close to it. Alex made the mistake of not looking where he was walking, accidentally trying to catch another glimpse at the sky. That was how the whole mess started.

Alex stumbled over a tree root, he nearly fell face-first on the ground, and Greg hurried to grab his bicep so that he didn't break any of his million-dollar bones. As they made contact, both of them froze, their entire bodies stilling as if they were petrified by Medusa. Greg felt it- a pulling in his navel, similar to the pulling he felt when he went on a roller coaster when he was 11 and ended up laughing hysterically to keep from throwing up. He felt like he was flying through the heavens and being hurled to the earth all at once.

The Mark on his wrist flared to life, turning into a bright shade of red before settling into a serene blue. It didn't hurt, per se, but it made his stomach do somersaults and he could see his skin glowing faintly. In the darkness of the garden, they were like two lighthouses before it settled and his limbs felt heavy from the weight of the Mark.

It was  _ a lot _ . And something about this reeked of trouble for the both of them.

He could tell Alex knew it too. He was pale, looking at Greg with wide and terrified eyes, holding his mark defensively. " _ What have you done _ ?" he hissed, his eyes dancing with a flame.

"You were about to fall! You could have gotten hurt, I didn't know-"

"Then you should have let me fall, you idiot! Do you have any idea what this means? My father will disown me if he finds out." He shook his head, backing away, but Greg could see the tears shimmering in his eyes. Greg didn't need to look down at his Mark to see it fading into a dull shade of black. "I'm sorry, Gregory Lestrade. I  _ cannot _ . Not if I want to- to-"

_ Stay alive _ , Greg finished for him. Alex's father would kill him if he found out. That was all there was to it. No happy ending. No way around it. They were two kids with no chance to survive in the real world.

The real world was cruel.

"It's okay," Greg told him, trying to smile even though it felt like his soul was shriveling to dust inside of him. "I get it, right? I do, I understand. We're young. Maybe one day... our paths'll cross again. Until then, I guess this is it."

Alex nodded, his eyes teary and Greg wanted- more than anything- to reach over and wrap him in his arms and promise to never let go. He wished he could go back to the clearing again and lay under the stars and forget the world ever existed. "Maybe. If the universe is kind enough."

The universe is hardly kind. Greg wanted to scream and curl into a fetal position and maybe eat ice cream for several weeks while he got over someone he hardly ever knew but his soul decided to love.

"Will you say it or will I?" Alex asked, still trying to keep his brave face on.

"I will," Greg responded.  _ Too young. _ They were too young for this. A chant ingrained into everyone's minds came to the forefront of his mind. He opened his mouth and spoke out the words he never imagined he'd have to say at the age of 15.

"Never fear of a heart you cannot touch or claim,

in the vast universe there are many more to come your way.

Another year, another month, another day,

someone else would dare to stay."

The winds wept in Greg's ears as he finished the chant, and his Mark faded to its previous state, taking with it so much more than the band of color.

"I'm sorry, Gregory."

Greg looked up at the boy across from him with his eyes still filled with exhaustion and anger that was aimed at the universe. "Just... go." He sounded harsh even to his own ears, but Alex didn't seem to hold it against him. He likely felt the same way. Greg could see how red Alex's eyes were even in the dim lighting. Alex turned and never dared to look back. Greg remained sitting in the garden, by the statue he'd first seen the red-haired boy, until the first lights of dawn started to shine over the garden.

By then he'd cried all he could cry, and stood with a determined look in his eyes as he walked to his mother's rooms. One day, he'll find the one. Until then, he would wait and focus on himself and his mother. He understood now, he finally saw how painful his father's death was to her. Greg finally understood much the Mark ached and pulsed hollowly like an echo bouncing off of a cave. He wondered when it would fade- if ever- and if the ones who had found multiple soul mates ever got used to it. He wondered if the ones who chose to love someone that their mark didn't react to ever felt this way when losing them. He let out a breath, growing even more tired from the train of thought.

When the time for their departure came he and Alexander shared a final look, but Alexander bowed his head and Greg focused on Violet who was beaming at him and acting like a doting mother hen that had found a new addition to her clan. A bit away her husband was busy talking up a housemaid, grinning like the predator he was, and Greg could hardly keep himself from glaring.

"Can you teach me how to paint?" he asked his mam on their way home, who looked at him funny.

"Paint? Greg, are you alright?" she asked with a soft smile, knowing how Greg hated getting his hands dirty with paint.

"I'm fine, it's just..." Greg responded, shaking his head. "I want to learn how to paint. I want to make masterpieces like you do. I mean, if you'll teach me, I think I can learn to. It can't be that different from drawing. I have something in mind I want to paint."

There was silence as his mother thought about what this meant. "What-" she began, but stopped herself. "I think we might have some extra brushes and canvases in the cupboards I can use to teach you."

"Good," Greg responded, absentmindedly touching his father's ring. "Good."

_ If I cannot be allowed to keep you, then I will keep your memory with me.  _

 


	2. Chapter 2

The guard took his invitation at the door, reviewing it thoroughly to be sure of his identity and that he had truly been invited. He was made to sign his name, and he understood the implications that came with it. Sherlock had gone on and on about it, making sure he understood every word that was written in the fine print. From this point on, he was a guest, and unless if he had cause to act as a man of the law then what he saw inside of these walls would never reach the spaces beyond them.

It was an elegant mansion that gave Greg an odd feeling of deja vu, as if Greg had seen it a thousand and one times in his dreams, on the covers of books, in the sleeping parts of his soul. At the entrance, muffled music drifted in through the shut doors, and the guards merely smiled and nodded politely. The hall was plain enough that most people would think that a normal party was taking place, but Greg knew better. The nameless guard handed him a mask and showed him in, and music filled his ears when he stepped fully into the room.

Looking around, he saw men dancing with one another, some were at the bar drinking or having chats in twos, and the rest were lounging and talking with each other as if they were the closest of friends. Once in a while, Greg saw men without their masks on that he'd heard about in the papers, or some who he'd seen on TV. “Explains the anonymity, doesn't it?” Sherlock asked from beside him suddenly, and Greg startled. He looked over to see the man wearing a simple white mask on the top half of his face.

“Christ, Sherlock. Don't do that, nearly gave an old man a heart attack,” Greg said. He looked back out at the crowd of men, his heart aching in his chest as he understood the sadness beneath such a joyful celebration. “I wish it didn't have to be like this- anonymous, I mean.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The party's called the Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name for a reason, Lestrade. The people who come here cannot openly parade their hearts in front of others for professional or personal reasons- people in power who would have it used against them in their field, people who would be disowned by their families, people in marriages... they gather here once a year on Valentines for the faintest semblance of human companionship and love. Sometimes they spend the night together, but mostly they do not see each other again until the next year.”

“Waiting a year until you can see someone you love again sounds hellish,” Greg murmured, shaking his head.

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes scanning over him like it usually did, though they were softer than usual. “If someone truly loved someone else, a year is a worthwhile wait.”

A man wearing a mask with peacock feathers all over it and a brown sweater vest dashed across the room, meeting another man in a black three-piece suit in the middle, laughing and grinning like two star-crossed lovers.

“Some find their soul mates here as well," Sherlock continued, before he shook his head and frowned. "But that is unimportant, what matters is why we're truly here. I am going to do some scouting around- we're free to stay the night, you're in Room 504, and I'm in 449- and you will act as nothing more than a guest."

"I thought I was meant to be here as a detective?" Greg asked, suddenly confused why Sherlock arrived at his flat at the asscrack of dawn complaining about how utterly mortal John was (as if he'd decided to come down with a flu for giggles) if all Greg had to do was be a bloody guest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes like the very idea was insane. "No, obviously not. I am here as the detective. You're here to help me if someone tries to kill me. Otherwise, don't approach me at all."

"Nice to know I'm needed," Greg said with a grin, and watched as Sherlock walked away, leaving him alone in the middle of a mansion without any acquaintances or friends here.

People walking by looked at him, asked his name, and some even chatted with him for a few minutes before they were pulled away by someone else or they saw someone else they liked. It was very much like playing a game of matching cards, except in this game you only had one night to make sure you found a match. He tried not to notice how some of the men who shook his hand were a little disappointed when nothing happened, but he couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed as well when his mark didn't react.

He now had a black band around his wrist, signalling the death of his last girlfriend. They were just talking about marriage when a mishappen car came out of nowhere and... Well, his mark told the rest of the story. Below it, a pale and uncolored band was waiting patiently, telling him that he should do the same and just wait.

"Excuse me," a voice said, calling him from his thoughts. He looked up at the man who wore a grey pinstripe suit, his fine dark hair combed back to reveal an elegant face from what Greg saw of it. "I've not seen you here before. Is this your first time attending?"

Greg nodded, still taking in the other man and his plain black mask. "Um, yes, sir. It's my first time here. Never really had the need to come before."

The stranger's blue eyes flickered to the skin on his wrist that the jacket failed to cover, then met Greg's eyes again. "Ah, I see. Condolences, Mr..."

"Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade," Greg answered, smiling, feeling something alluring about this man. He watched as the man across from him stilled, every muscle on his body freezing for a fraction of a second.

"Lestrade, you say?" the man murmured, his eyes glazing over for a moment as he stood there. He was silent for a moment, before he cleared his throat. "I see. Will you come with me?"

Greg frowned, knowing that if he was away from the main floor Sherlock might need him any moment. "Where to?"

The piercing eyes stared into his eyes, an emotion dancing across his features that went too quickly for Greg to properly name. "Come and see, stranger," the man responded, a smile on his aristocratic face.

For a moment, Greg hesitated. For a moment, he debated whether this might be a lure, a trap, a distraction. For a moment, the word no almost lured off his tongue.

Yet even though he should know better than to trust a stranger in a mask, he acquiesced and allowed the gentle-eyed man to lead him away from the room filled with the orchestra and suited men and take him to the garden. When he stepped onto the garden his heart did a little leap and he finally realized why the place had seemed familiar.

His mind struggled to catch up with what was going on, and the stranger slipped off his mask. "The house has been renovated and a lot has changed, hence why you didn't immediately recognize it. The garden remains mostly the same as it was back then, I think. What do you think, Gregory?"

"Alexander," he whispered, his chest pounding and his knees weak. "Why didn't- why didn't Sherlock ever tell me that you were- Why did he not tell me about you being his brother?"

Mycroft shook his head, eyes contrite as he looked at Greg. "He was a child at the time, Gregory, not to mention unaware about what had happened. Out of a hundred faces that day, I'm afraid he wouldn't remember most of it. He didn't know."

"I've seen you a lot through the years thinking you were just another face in the crowd. I was waiting for my Alexander to come back, waiting and waiting and waiting like a fool, and you were Alexander all this time. How could you- how could you do that?"

There was a silence that stretched on too long for Greg, whose nerves were already pulled taut. A muscle twitched in his jaw as anger and bitterness rose in him like acid. "Answer me!"

Mycroft sighed, averting his eyes. "I hadn't a choice. When I finally found you courtesy of Sherlock and his job as a detective, you were... with her. I saw your mark, so I decided it was best to remain in the background and not introduce a conflict in your relatively peaceful life. I was nothing more than the mysterious big brother to Sherlock, whom you hardly saw and hardly thought about- which was the safest option. With my career as well, it was unwise to introduce you back into my life during such a delicate process. It worked- for a while. You were happy with her and meanwhile I worked my way up to the top."

"You knew about Clarisse?" Greg asked, and Mycroft's eyes shined softly.

"It is my business to know things."

Greg remembered the words from what felt like a lifetime ago, of a red-haired teenager laying underneath the canvas of the sky beside him and talking about his father, wishing to one day surpass him.

Mycroft shifted from foot to foot, and he looked so utterly human that Greg wondered how he hadn't seen it before. Back when he met Sherlock he "met" Mycroft as well, but back then it was just Mr Holmes, or Holmes if they were being casual. He'd never thought that the posh, uptight man in the suit was the same person as the scrawny, scared boy he'd learned was his soul mate all those years ago.

"I am sorry, Gregory. I hope you believe me when I say that I didn't plan any of this. Sherlock played no hand in this, and was an ignorant party. He... is not unkind and would not be cruel enough to devise something like this, I dare to say," Mycroft said, looking back at the door that separated them from the party with a resigned expression of a man who'd been carrying his burdens for too long. "I hope this doesn't ruin your stay. Goodnight."

He turned to leave, before Greg stopped him. "Is that it then?"

Mycroft turned back around, looking at him with confusion in his eyes. "Pardon?"

"Is. that. it? You're going to tell me you were the first soulmate I ever had and then tell me goodnight? You're going to tell me that I found you a long time ago but didn't know and now that I finally do know all you're saying is that you hope seeing you again doesn't ruin my night? Are you kidding me?"

Mycroft frowned at him, his eyes searching him, silent. After a few seconds, he answered softly, "I don't know what you want me to say."

Greg sighed, almost growling. "Have you found someone?"

"What?"

"Are you bound to someone?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, why do you ask?"

"Because I found you on the day before Valentines and the least you could do is take me to bloody dinner, you dick!" Greg found himself yelling at the single most important man in Britain. Instead of having snipers come into the yard and incinerate him on the spot, Mycroft smiled, the moonlight casting a soft light on his face.

"Will you have dinner with me, Gregory Lestrade?"

"Gladly, Mycroft Alexander Holmes-"

"Alexander Mycroft C. Holmes, actually," Mycroft corrected gently, still smiling. He took Gregory to the dining room and the men in the mansion made way for them as they walked side by side. They didn't dare to touch one another yet, but the distance between them was small compared to the miles it had been previously.

They found a dinner table in the corner and ate food that melted on Greg's tongue like clouds and still his head felt like he was in Elysium. They talked and they ate and they fought against the desperate desire to touch one another across the table with their curious hands or straying feet. The force between them was stronger than any hunger that Greg had ever felt in his life, like a fire luring him in. He was ready to answer the call of the wild in his blood that Mycroft stirred and roused from its sleep, ready to close his eyes and jump into the abyss in the hopes he might find his peace on the other side.

The night found them together in a bedroom they weren't even completely sure was theirs, but they walked into it anyway. Greg stared at Mycroft across from him, taking note of every curve and edge of the body he'd tried to imagine a million times. The moonlight streaming in through the window cast a tender light to Mycroft, making his skin look nearly translucent, his face flushed as he stood in the middle of the room, waiting.

_ Quiet. Still. _ The moment was a picture that Greg would one day paint.

They'd waited long enough. In a flash Greg crossed the room, nearly closing the space between them, raising his hand to hover just an inch over Mycroft's face. "Mycroft..." he began, unsure how else to finish but Mycroft understood and nodded.

He'd imagined the touch, how it would happen, a million times. He'd thought of claiming his lips in the middle of a party as the rest of the guests danced around them and music pounded in their ears, and grabbing his waist in the privacy of their own rooms where they could savor the taste of eachother's skin , and he'd mused over the idea of them lacing their fingers together underneath the stars once again in the same garden they'd first met. It didn't happen like that.

Their first touch was a caress.

Greg moved his fingers to cup the other man's face in his hands, dropping his forehead to rest upon Mycroft's, the entire world stilling around them as his Mark woke from its long stretch of dormancy. He could hear Mycroft gasping, in surprise or in awe he wasn't sure.

"I made a mistake," Mycroft began after many beats of silence, speaking fast as he leaned his head up and gazed up at the ceiling as Greg ran his fingers through his hair that he'd dyed to a shade of auburn. "I made a mistake that day, I should have- I should have fought for this, for us, for you, I should have told my father he was wrong. I shouldn't have been a coward, Greg, I should have-"

He would have spoken more if Greg didn't shush him gently, pressing a finger to his lips. "Hush, love, we're together now. And we shan't ever be parted again." With that, he leaned in, and pressed his lips against Mycroft's and he breathed him in like a drowning man desperate for air. He couldn't tear himself away from Mycroft for more than a second, trying to make up for all the time lost. The way that Mycroft touched him felt like moonlight, tasted like chocolate-covered strawberries, felt like something that even a thousand metaphors couldn't quite describe.

Somehow nothing could describe how it felt to lie with the one man that Greg had yearned for and pined after for more than two decades.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, and Mycroft smiled at him with eyes that only looked at  _ him _ that way.

"And I am yours," he responded, voice soft and gentle, teasing.

"Mine."

"Always," Mycroft breathed against Greg's lips, eyes shut in a quiet relish of the moment.

Their mouths opened under one another, and Greg tasted the traces of the wine that Mycroft drank, fruity and sweet on his own tongue. They sunk into the cushions, and Greg traced his fingers over the collarbones that called to his fingers before making quick work of the suit the man had worn. Mycroft looked at him with wide eyes, hissing when Greg grazed his lips against the flesh of Mycroft's chest, not moving away but arching closer still.

"I waited so long for this." Greg wanted to say a million more things.

_ I thought losing you would destroy me. I thought I'd lost you forever. _

_ Your face still haunts my dreams at night, my love, the memories of you still remain with me and have never stopped being my deepest regret that I kept hidden from the rest of the world. _

_ You were a memory I kept close to me chest, and a history I longed to share with the rest of the world because it was too suffocating to be the only person on earth who remembered. _

_ I would die for you, would not allow myself to be separated from you again, would not let this go without a fight. _

_ I love you. _

Yet he knew of no words to articulate them well enough, no words in any language could suffice in expressing the tide of emotions and thoughts, and so he kept silent, instead using his body to say what his mouth would not.

"Greg," Mycroft groaned when Greg ran his fingers through his hair, tightening his grip experimentally and rubbing their fronts together. "Greg." He repeated it over and over, Greg's name sounding different in his mouth than it had in anyone else's, repeating it like a mantra, a chant, a praise, as if it was the only word he had in his usually-full mind.

Mycroft's body fit against his like a missing puzzle piece, and he ran his hands over every inch of it, his tongue tasting the salt of Mycroft's neck and chest and abdomen. The man melted in his hands like putty, jerking when Greg's hands strayed down to his place of pleasure. "Yes, there," Mycroft said, eyes wide, goosebumps forming along his flesh.

"Gladly," Greg responded, grinning. He took Mycroft into his hands, straddling him, stroking him slowly and lightly and he watched in wonder as Mycroft panted and groaned and trembled and asked for more, fascinated as he watched Mycroft come undone beneath him . "Speak to me. Tell me what you want." His voice was rough, husky, intoxicated by the sound of Mycroft's broken voice as he spoke in half-formed pleas and whimpers.

Mycroft clenched his eyes shut as Greg deliberately moved his hands slowly, dragging out the pleasure until it bordered on cruelty. "More. Faster, Greg, please. I need, I need more."

Greg watched in rapture as Mycroft twisted and quivered under his hand as he quickened his pace, taking note of which movements made him let out a quick breath as if he'd had his lungs hollowed of oxygen, which movements made his eyes fill with bliss, which movements made him bite on his lip to keep from calling out.

Finally, finally, he arched his back and shuddered, warmth spilling onto his own stomach in between them. He lay there breathing, chest rising and falling, before he opened his eyes and leaned to meet Greg's lips, his fingers reaching between Greg's thighs as they traded positions.

Greg grabbed for Mycroft's hair, tugging and tightening as heat pooled in his abdomen and tightened and tightened. "Fuck, like that," he said, glad to be close to Mycroft, glad to share this intimacy with him, glad to be alive in the same time as him. He laid back and let Mycroft bring him to pleasure, groaning and growling and hissing, his fingers buried in Mycroft's hair and the other on his bicep, squeezing tightly. He drowned in the sensations that wrapped around him, unaware of the world beyond the door, beyond Mycroft's warm blue eyes and his hand soft as velvet around him.

The touch was electrifying, and Mycroft worked his hand quickly and efficiently, until each stroke was followed by a gasp. Greg was floating in a cloud of euphoria, clenching the sheets in his fists. He shut his eyes with a silent cry when his pleasure reached his peak, feeling raw as he came apart and trembled and gasped and tried to find his footing against in reality.

"Mycroft," he panted, voice ragged, and the space next to him dipped, the warmth of a body pressing against him.

“I am here,” came the response, soft, a hand wrapped around his chest as they both took the time to breathe. The cloud in Greg's mind slowly slipped away until he became aware of the sheen of sweat on his skin, the covers that had been soiled, and the feeling of Mycroft still against him. He opened his eyes, looking down at Mycroft with a smile. Mycroft looked up at him with the eyes that were the same color as the limpid river, piercing and intense in the light. The emotions had been cleared from his face, and he looked at Greg as if to gauge his reaction.

“I've been wishing for this night since I met you,” Greg said, turning his eyes to the ceiling which was dark enough that it was easy to pretend it was the night sky on a cloudy day. The moon always soothed all of his worries, the blanket of stars a constant sanctuary he kept for the days when the world demanded too much.

Mycroft hummed, tracing patterns on Greg's skin. “I never thought-” he began, but stopped, shaking his head. “I didn't think I would find you again.”

“You found me before I found you,” Greg said, but the words were not as bitter or resentful as they might have been earlier.

Mycroft sighed, sitting up. His eyes drifted downward to the mark that was glowing a light pink on his skin. “What does this mean?” Greg followed him and sat up as well, feeling a needle of fear prick his mind as he thought about the events that unfolded and what this meant for them now.

“It means whatever you'd like it to mean.” What had happened didn't guarantee a happy ending, didn't mean anything if one of them didn't want want to assign a meaning to it. His throat closed with worry that Mycroft would say the damned words he'd said before.  _ I am sorry, Gregory Lestrade, I cannot _ . “Do you regret this?” he asked, praying to the universe that he wouldn't be forced to say goodbye again. Not again. Not ever.

“No,” Mycroft responded, voice low and soft, turning his head so that he was meeting Greg's eyes. His hair fell into his eyes as he sat there, contemplative, a quiet air surrounding him. “I don't regret this. Do you?”

“Never,” Greg replied.

“Good.” Mycroft let out a breath of relief, his fingers tracing the mark around his wrist. “That's good.” They were quiet for a while, lying back down in bed and comforted by the idea of not being alone. The rest of the night was torn between slow and delicate touches and frantic desire; when dusk came, so did their realization that they would not wish to ever be parted.

_ Lovers. Soul Mates. Partners.  _ They found these names to give meaning to what they were among many others.  _ Boyfriends. Inamoratos. Significant others.  _ The list went on and on.

“You brother would be looking for me,” Greg commented as Mycroft stirred beside him from his sleep.

“Yes. Will you tell him?” Mycroft asked, tired but sated, a shy smile playing on his face. He looked up at Gregory as if Greg was his sun, his source of light and warmth, and Greg wondered how he'd survived these years in cold and darkness if he'd never found another soul mate before him, never found someone to fill the void before Greg.  _ How lonely a life _ , he mused.

“I would if you'd let me.” Greg knew that Mycroft enjoyed his privacy and needed to keep many things a secret due to his career, but just this once he wished that Mycroft would make an exception. Perhaps the love that dared not to speak its name could slowly become one that they wouldn't need to keep concealed to private quarters and dark corridors, one that they could parade to the world and expect the world to accept. He wanted to scream to the world that Mycroft's name was etched into the very fibers of his soul, and that nobody else would be able to touch him and ignite the flames within him quite like Mycroft could.

Mycroft nodded infinitesimally, “if you wish.” Greg pressed a kiss to his head, checking the clock. “Breakfast?”

“Sounds like a fine idea,” Mycroft said, sitting up and throwing the sheets off. Greg followed suit and stretched his muscles, looking in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. His hair was going in all directions, but he couldn't deny that he looked like he wasn't carrying around the world on his shoulders anymore. He finished brushing his teeth and washed his face, feeling more awake than he had in a long time.

“So... this party,” Greg began as they got dressed. “Were you the one to organize it? What's it for? Who cleans up the mess left behind?”

“Well... no,” Mycroft responded with a sigh, looking in the mirror and combing his hair. “I didn't come up with the idea for it, the idea has been around for a very long time, and most years before this an old friend of mine was the one hosting it. He passed recently, and I took up the responsibilities for the party- giving out invitations, selecting a venue for gathering, etc. and that's why I chose my family home. It's large, spacious, mostly unused and unlived in except for the servants and occasional guests. And maybe also because I wanted to be a bit petty by taking a large crowd of homosexuals to a place where I was never welcome to come out.

“This party is meant to promote love and romance for those who are homosexual. The guests leave large amounts of donations, all of which will be used to help sufferers of HIV/AIDS and LGBT youth. The point of this party is to keep love and hope alive for people who aren't free to love who they desire.”

Greg smiled at the words, nodding. “That sounds noble of you.”

“Noble?” Mycroft responded, looking at him with a smile playing on his lips. “Not really.”

Greg took a second to appreciate him before he worked on tying his laces. Mycroft turned to face him when he stood, looking like he always did- untouchable, infallible, unflappable.  _ How many people never see a different side of you, Mycroft? How many people never have the honor to find out how complex and intricate you are beyond your genius intellect? Who made you this way? _

_ How many years have you kept your heart chained up and concealed from the world? _

“Are you ready?” Mycroft asked him, and Greg realized he was staring. He nodded hastily and they left their rooms, joining the rest of the guests at the buffet. Sherlock approached them, looking at them for a second before he sighed and rolled his eyes, knowing all that there was to know by the mark that they shared. Neither of them had bothered to cover it, rolling up their sleeves so that for one day in their lives they could show the world they belonged to no one else but each other.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, “I'd wondered where you'd gone last night. If you're interested, the case is solved, so I'm going to go home and take a nice, long shower.” He turned, fixing his coat and pointedly ignoring a man who kept grinning at him from a short amount of distance. Mycroft stared at Sherlock's back as he took two steps before stopping. “And Mycroft,” he began, as if it was an afterthought. “I'm glad you finally got on with it. Really, I think the monitoring on him was a bit over-the-top, but each to their own, I suppose. Good day, brother dear.”

With that he left, followed by a man who he ignored completely. Mycroft was left staring after him, torn between joyful surprise and disbelief. “He's grown up,” he murmured softly, leaning against Greg as the man wrapped an arm around his waist.

The day passed in a blur of color and music and messy kissing in the car and in the shadows of the park and in the corner of the restaurant. They kissed in places nobody would see, still too afraid to proclaim their love for all to hear, but they wore their hearts on their sleeves for all to make their own conclusions.

The distance between them was always small, often ending up touching in some way or another even if only through elbows bumping or knees pressed against each other when sitting. Even when distant from each other they were close, and Greg only needed to glance at his wrist to know. He was not alone.

The people at work teased and asked questions and when he was picked up from work one day by an auburn-haired man in a sleek sedan, they knew. Their smirks and lighthearted teasing peaked for a while before it settled down into something they all just knew was fact. The sun rose and fell, the ocean was filled with water, and Gregory Lestrade was utterly in love with Mycroft Holmes- who loved him back just as much if not more.

They spent their days in one another's company, and some days he brought Mycroft to his flat. It was plain, with painting supplies and canvases filling an entire bedroom that he'd turned into his studio.

Paintings of gardens and night skies and red-haired boys filled the canvases displayed on the walls, paintings so realistic that Mycroft gasped, his hand hovering over the painting as if looking at it filled him with pain. The ones still on the easels were more recent, and they showed restaurants they'd shared dinner in, parks that they'd gone to, and shadowed figures in a hotel room.  _ My Muse, _ Greg had titled one of the most beautiful pieces which depicted Mycroft with his eyes closed, standing with his head bowed in wait. It was a melancholy piece, shaded in deep blues and blacks, but it was beautiful and alluring in the same way that sadness and rainy days could be. He tried not to notice the way Mycroft's breath hitches, the way his tears well in his eyes, the way that he leaned against Greg as if he were drowning.

With Mycroft, there was a lot of things he had to try not to notice. The way he clenched his hands on the handle of his umbrella when fear and distress filled him, the way his eyes would shadow over at times when the world demanded too much of him, the sorrow in his eyes at night when it brought him nothing but memories he didn't want, the soft tremble he had in his hands when pushed to rage.

Greg grew to know Mycroft as if he were a part of him, knowing him by touch and by smell and by taste. Knowing how his hands fiddled with his pen when he was indecisive and how his eyes would sometimes gaze into space as if he were seeing universes no other man could. He had arms as sturdy as wood and as comforting as candlelight and vanilla ice cream that he would bring home as an apology for always being away.

If Mycroft had a smell that belonged solely to him it would be of old books and rain and cigarette smoke and black ink and ice. And Greg loved every bit of it.

“I love you,” Mycroft would say during the nights they spent wrapped in each other's embrace, and Greg would smile and respond with an  _ I know, Mycroft _ because he knew now to never fear that he was hearing it for the last time.

“I love you,” Mycroft would say during the mornings as they both rushed to get to work, kissing Greg as he handed him his coat jacket before asking if he should pick up dinner on the way home or saying he would be home late if at all.

“Gregory, I love you,” he would say at the middle of the restaurant, kneeling on the ground in front of Greg, and he would not ask, would not need to ask, because Greg already said yes.

“God, I love you,” he would breathe shakily at the altar, grinning as tears fell from his eyes, staring at Greg who tried to remember how to speak when he couldn't even breathe.

“I love you too, Mycroft,” Greg would respond, and the people would clap as they leaned in for a kiss, their marks a bright and visible red, and neither of them hide it.  _ Mycroft.  _ The name rolled off of his tongue like a magic word, and it expressed more than any other word in any language.

_ Mycroft, _ he said in curiosity, calling his lover from his mind on the occasions that Mycroft would fall into a silence, lost in his mind. He watched as Mycroft's eyes would snap to meet his, a deep and piercing blue that was deeper than the ocean and brighter than the stars.

_ Mycroft, _ he said in need and desire as sweat covered him and the sheets twist around their bodies that move in rhythm, and he would feel consumed by the sensations that leave his insides quivering with electricity.

_ Mycroft, _ he said in sorrow, in anger, in concealed anguish when the air between them was tight with secrets, and an ocean of words they were too afraid to say separated them and they were both too afraid to try and traverse it in fear of drowning.

_ Mycroft _ , he would say over and over again, repeating it because the word bent and sloped to contain the weight of what he felt and never did another word express his thoughts quite as well as that single two-syllable word. He would say it again and again, knowing that always he would hold that name dear for it had engulfed him and claimed his heart, and he would say it again with a promise that there would be more to come. 


End file.
